


Beginning Again

by MonJoh



Series: Season 4 AU [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/M, Post-Magic Reveal, Season/Series 04, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonJoh/pseuds/MonJoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana ponders her future after being deposed and thrown out of Camelot for the second time (sequel to His Father's Son Season 4 AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Morgana’s point of view from the end of my Season 4 AU. In summary – Arthur and the knights arrived at the Tomb of Ashkanar before Merlin could hide the dragon’s egg. By the end of Season 4, Arthur and Merlin had reconciled their differences and Morgana also knew Emrys’ true identity. Arthur’s change of heart did not stop her from allying with Helios and taking Camelot with Agravaine’s assistance, but she was defeated. It was not Aithusa who found and saved her but the Druids led by the child, Mordred.

_The pattern repeats again_ , Morgana thought. She sat alone on the ground in her favourite spot not far from the Druid camp where the Forest of Ascetir gave way to more open countryside. As the ground sloped down beyond her resting place, it became rockier with chunks of stone poking holes in the green, but here she could sit comfortably, even stretch out flat on the ground when she chose.

She glanced at the dark red sleeves to remind herself what it felt like to be wearing colour again after she had lived in nothing but unrelieved black for so long. Her discarded gown had been better quality material than her Druid apparel, but it was inappropriate to wear mourning when she no longer felt sorrow as she no longer felt happy or angry or anything else. Her red robe was also better suited to her daily tasks as part of the Druid community. She had combed the tangled snarls from her long black hair and tied it with a simple cord to keep it away from her face while she worked.

When Morgana first found herself living in the Druid settlement, she had thought the man they called Iseldir was their leader but it was very different from the ultimate control exercised by kings and nobles. Iseldir was leader only as long as the people agreed his words and actions were worth following. Even then, if someone chose a different path, that person was free to act in accordance with his or her conscience as long as it did not harm the community. Decisions were made by consensus and the leader – such as he was – was chosen by the elder women who monitored his actions and advised his decisions. It was absolutely foreign to Morgana who had grown up in a hierarchy where Uther had ultimate sway over all those in his kingdom and enforced his authority with laws and weapons, burnings and beheadings. Not that there were no laws among the Druids, but the punishments she had seen generally involved ostracizing the offender until he or she made recompense to whoever had been injured. The greatest punishment was banishment.

It was one of those who had been banished who had caught her attention earlier in the day as she had deftly separated edible roots from inedible leaves, her shoulders twitching under the rough cloth of her tunic. Iseldir had called the visitor Ruadan and had refused to invite him to join their morning meal. That was strange because the Druids were usually welcoming to any of their kin, sharing food and hospitality regardless of how little there was to spare.

Ruadan bore a Druid tattoo on the right side of his neck but he carried a sword and weapons like a knight. A spark of interest had touched her through the apathy which clouded her days and Morgana found herself staring at him. Once he had seen her, he turned back to Iseldir with a triumphant glint in his eye at which Iseldir crossed his arms and refused to say anything more.

Ruadan had left the elder standing there to approach her. “My lady Morgana Pendragon.”

She started at hearing the title which no one had used to address her in nearly a year.

“Could I speak with you privately, my lady?”

She had glanced at Iseldir but he gave no indication of whether or not he thought it wise for her to converse with the stranger. With a shrug, she silently led the way further from curious eyes and listening ears.

The balding, grey-haired man had hesitated, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I should tell you first that the reason I am no longer welcome here is that I chose to take up arms against the persecution of my people.”

Morgana’s gaze had returned to the sword which looked so incongruous with the Druid tattoo.

“I have trained long and hard and consider my skills with the blade to be as good as any knight of Camelot.”

Morgana doubted the truth of that but he did not make any effort to try to persuade her. She wondered if it could be more than an empty boast because in her experience braggarts were intent on convincing their audience of their claims.

“When I obtained the information I was searching for, I planned to find you so I could support your campaign to bring back magic. It had been my intention to offer you my services until …”

When he broke off she finally responded, although she could rouse only the slightest curiosity. “Until what?”

“Until my spy sent me information that caused me to put my plans on hold.”

Morgana waited silently, unsure what any of it had to do with her now.

“My informant told me King Arthur repealed the ban on magic, even that a known sorcerer is serving as an advisor on his Council and rides to battle with him.”

He stared at her intently and again Morgana wondered what that had to do with her. She had had no part in Arthur’s about-face on his attitude to magic.

“Why would he do that?” Ruadan demanded.

Surprised by the man’s intensity, Morgana’s forehead wrinkled. “Why are you asking me? You must know I have not been welcome in Camelot for almost three years, nor have I had much to do with my brother in that time.” She was supposed to be bitter about that, Morgana thought to herself. She was supposed to be angry but somehow she could not dredge up much feeling about anything, as if she had spent all her emotions and there were none left.

Ruadan was taken aback by her response. “Is it a trick?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Morgana’s face. “A trick? No. Who would Arthur be attempting to fool?” It was ludicrous to think there was an elaborate plan to thwart the man when she had never heard of him before and doubted that Arthur had, either.

“There was a time when Uther countenanced sorcery, even took advantage of it himself, before he made magic his enemy. Will his son do the same?” Ruadan appeared unwilling to believe that his lofty goal had been accomplished without his assistance.

Morgana considered whether Arthur would resume his father’s war on sorcery. “No,” she said with finality.

“How is it possible that a Pendragon could be responsible for freeing our people?”

It was ironic he would address the comment to a Pendragon, one he had intended to ally with at that. “It was the work of Emrys,” she said. A flicker of anger sparked inside her before the emotionless cold settled in once again. She could not rekindle the outrage she should feel that her destiny had been usurped, her dream of returning magic to the land stolen by the person who tried to kill her.

“Emrys?” the warrior Druid repeated in shock.

“Emrys is Arthur’s closest friend and advisor.”

She saw a look of determination come over the man’s strong features before he abruptly took his leave of her. She had not the slightest doubt he intended to confront Emrys himself and she wondered what that might mean for her, if Ruadan told Merlin she was alive and where she was. But she could not make herself care even about that.

Even now, watching the moon grow brighter as the sky darkened, the strange man’s visit barely intruded on her thoughts as she sat alone. In her past lives she had preferred company, always happiest when she was surrounded by others, but now she grew tired of constant companionship and the babble of voices. By the end of her daily chores she longed to rest in isolation with no sounds except insects and birds and forest creatures.

She liked this spot because it was a private place. There were no berries or useful herbs to draw those who spent the evening hours picking plants, no stream or pool for those who wanted to bathe, just the shelter of the trees behind her and a view of the unsettled land stretching into the distance which she knew became the arable fields surrounding Camelot. Her mind skipped through the twists and turns of her life, reviewing it dispassionately as though it had happened to someone else.

The first time her life had been upended, she had been a child. A stranger had come to Tintagel with a message which sent the household staff into an uproar. Morgana had been curious because the stranger had been dressed in royal livery. If her father had been there, she would have asked him what had happened, knowing he would answer her questions. Since her mother’s death, her father had been what Hedda termed “over-indulgent,” said by the nursemaid with a disdainful sniff behind Gorlois’ back. She would not have openly criticized him despite her secure position. Of course, as Morgana herself was quick to point out, she was much too old for a nursemaid but Hedda had been taking care of her since she was an infant and it seemed natural to continue in that role. Morgana was put out that Hedda had yet to come and explain the flurry of activity the messenger had engendered. Instead, it had been the dour-faced housekeeper who bossed around the maids and usually treated Morgana with detachment who respectfully but coldly ushered the girl up to her room and told her to dress for a long journey.

Sensing something was terribly wrong but uncertain what to do about it, Morgana had uncharacteristically done as she was told. Once she was properly attired, she sat in the most comfortable chair in her bedchamber and waited, watching as the maids packed her things and cast pitying glances in her direction and listening to the sounds of upheaval elsewhere in the house. Morgana heard the family carriage draw up to the courtyard below her window, the horses stamping and shaking their harness.

Finally, she could stand the suspense no longer and jumped up, intending to march downstairs and demand answers; demand to talk to Hedda, demand they send for her father, when Hedda’s voice came through her closed chamber door.

“What do you mean you haven’t told her?”

Hedda rarely shouted and Morgana sat back down, alarmed to hear her nursemaid so angry.

“She is not setting one foot out of her room until she knows what has happened and has some inkling about what to expect!”

“The child has been told to dress for a long journey.” It was Alvain’s voice. He had full responsibility for the keep whenever Gorlois was away, which was often. “What more does she need to know?”

Although he was ostensibly Hedda’s master in the absence of Gorlois, the determined expression on Hedda’s face when she opened Morgana’s door indicated the woman had utterly ignored whatever instruction he had given her. He looked about to reprimand her but apparently decided he had better things to occupy his time than have a shouting match with a servant. He turned away as Hedda shut the door on him, holding her temper in check enough to keep from slamming it. Then she saw Morgana and her anger melted away completely leaving an expression of sadness that sent a shiver up Morgana’s spine.

“Leave us for a moment,” Hedda told the maids who had quickly resumed their packing duties, pretending not to have gaped at the scene in the corridor.

Both women left the chamber.

“Come here child.” Hedda sat in her favourite chair, the one she told Morgana she had used when nursing her, and held out her arms. Hesitantly Morgana approached, thinking she had grown too old to sit on the woman’s lap and yet needing that comfort.

As gently as possible, Hedda explained Gorlois was dead and Morgana was going to live in the palace in Camelot. The shock of her father’s death was nearly more than she could bear; the thought of leaving home before she could even grieve for him made it harder.

Of course, she had assumed Hedda would come with her never considering Hedda had a life in Tintagel. Although Morgana had been to court more than once, always it was with her father and Hedda by her side. When the woman explained that King Uther would provide for her needs including any staff she required, Morgana felt the last pillar supporting her whole existence fall away. Hedda held her through her sobs for her father and for her own uncertain future.

In time, Morgana built a new existence for herself, finding her place within the busy centre of Camelot’s power. Eventually she grew more comfortable with the enigmatic king her father had regarded so highly but who had been only a distant figure in her life until then. Of her previous visits to the palace, only during her final trip with her father had she been deemed old enough to sit in the banquet room with the other ladies during the feast. King Uther and his son were the focus of much attention, but Morgana was more interested in gaping at the ladies with their extravagant court dress when she was not staring open-mouthed at the sheer volume and variety of food in front of her. She had been frightened of Uther then. The imposing figure wearing a crown, sitting on a throne, surrounded by people whose lives he held in his hand – including hers.

The first time the king addressed Morgana directly was when she was presented as his ward. He had smiled at her. The blond boy beside him frowned at seeing his father’s smile and had given her a sour look. Immediately she decided she did not like the boy. She had been proud of herself the first time she knocked him flat. He had been surprised and even more offended, and she had realized wounding his pride was the surest way to show him she would not be ignored. Although she was older, the boy had quickly grown bigger than she was, so she learned to use a sword and beat him at that. If this was to be her home, she would be a presence in it.

She had grown to know the corridors and halls and chambers of Camelot’s citadel better than she remembered the keep where she had spent her early years, as she had become familiar with the best areas to hunt and the prettiest forest paths. She had grown accustomed to fine clothes and the abundance of food. And she pondered whether she would actually marry Arthur when Uther proposed the match. Of course she was aware that the oldest courtiers favoured Elena as future Queen, but those rumours died off when Morgana reached marriageable age. Morgana concluded the match was the only reason for Uther’s continuing to support her, wondering as the years passed why the king had yet to make any announcement.

Then thoughts of marriage had been swept to the back of her mind by the discovery of her magic. It came to be the focus of her thoughts almost constantly; the fear of exposure but also the thrill of the power she could feel. She wanted to explore and learn all she could, frustrated that she was cut off from anyone who could teach her and frightened she could not control that power. She approached Gaius but he would never risk Uther’s displeasure by assisting someone to learn the forbidden art. And then for the second time her life was turned around completely.

She was ripping the blanket into strips to use as a sling, her hands working mechanically, her mind fogged by the insanity she had been living since waking that afternoon. A burning feeling tickled her throat, sliding down into her stomach, increasing in strength until she found it difficult to draw in air. Her forehead wrinkled in consternation, wondering what restricted her breath, and she glanced down at the waterskin Merlin had handed her. The burning and choking followed the path of the water into her system and she knew. She looked up at him in horror. His back was turned to her, unnaturally stiff, and she saw his hand come up as though to swipe at his cheek. He must have felt her eyes on him because he turned to meet her accusing gaze and gave a slight nod. She remembered fighting as his arms went around her, struggling against his hold as her murderer tried to offer her comfort and then her vision dimmed and the world went black.

When she woke, she found herself on a comfortable bed in an entirely unfamiliar room. The enigmatic blonde woman named Morgause was her only company except for a young girl who tended her needs but never spoke. Morgana remembered being ill for days, only regaining consciousness for short periods of time to see Morgause’s concerned face bending over her or the serving girl wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. Slowly the periods of wakefulness lengthened and she was able to take stock of the chamber she occupied.

Morgause lived in comfort; the sleeping chamber was nearly as large as the apartment Morgana had occupied in the citadel, certainly as large as her old room in Tintagel. As the stomach pains and headaches faded, Morgana recognized the familiar sounds of a large, busy keep as well as unfamiliar music played on foreign instruments, a ringing like a blacksmith working metal, and voices chanting strange words in unison at odd times of the night.

Despite the instinctive connection to the blonde woman Morgana had felt at their first meeting, she was reluctant to ask bluntly where she was and how she had gotten there. She realized the strange events in Camelot were connected to her meeting with Morgause at night in the woods: everyone falling asleep and the terrifying black knights whose faces were completely covered as though nothing human lingered under their helmets. That the knight had not killed her did not entirely reassure Morgana of her safety in spite of the care with which Morgause tended her illness.

Finally Morgana had awoken to bright light streaming in the window of the bedchamber, her head completely clear. Her lucid gaze met the appraising look of the serving girl who had immediately left, apparently to fetch Morgause because the beautiful blonde arrived minutes later wearing a lovely red gown which was entirely different from the loose blouse and pants she had worn under her amour.

“My dear,” she said. “We almost lost you! I am so relieved you are well again.”

“I must have you to thank for that,” Morgana said. Her mind whirled with all the questions she wanted to ask.

Morgause gave her a knowing smile. “I know you must be confused as well as curious.”

The blonde woman sat on Morgana’s bed and patted her hand which was as close to physical comfort as Morgause ever came.

“Where am I and how did I get here?” Morgana dared to ask.

“Please do me the favour of allowing me to begin at the beginning,” Morgause replied. “It is a long story, and it starts with my parents. _Our_ parents,” she added meaningfully, looking directly into Morgana’s eyes.

Morgana had been shocked to discover a sister she had not known existed, yet a part of her whispered in her mind that she _had_ known. Certainly she had recognized the woman on some level when she first laid eyes on the blonde as she doffed her helmet, standing there in Camelot’s banquet room wearing the light armour that Morgana belatedly realized must of course belong to a woman.

Discovering she had a sister had been one of the truly great joys in her life. After the deaths of her parents she had always felt deep down that she was alone; even though King Uther and Arthur had become like family, everyone knew she was only part of the royal household on Uther’s sufferance, she had no birthright to be there. So they thought. She had believed that herself, another lie in the series of lies her life had been: Gorlois was her father, she was an only child, she was an orphan, her prophetic dreams were just a sleeping malady and not because of magic. When Morgause saved her life and then explained about their mother, it had been like a light illuminating her whole past existence, wiping out the lies.

That this sister had traded a kingdom for Morgana’s life, giving up at the moment of victory for her sake, struck her deeply. As much as her father had doted on her, she knew his duty to his king came before his love for his child. Without doubt she had never come first with Uther whose love for himself, his kingdom, and his son outstripped any tender feeling he may have harboured for his bastard daughter. In the same way, Arthur made it clear that Camelot would always be his first concern. Even Hedda and Gwen had had other loyalties besides Morgana. But her sister had shown she was the most important consideration to Morgause. More important than anything else in the world.

Morgana had always considered herself strong, but it was Morgause who had grown up sure of who she was, certain of her purpose in life, aware of her own power – and not afraid of it. That her sister shared the gift of magic, indeed had been trained since birth by powerful High Priestesses, was another joy. Finally, Morgana was able to explore her own powers, eagerly soaking up anything her sister had to teach. Morgause was a hard taskmaster who displayed little patience, but Morgana bent herself to whatever exercise Morgause chose to set and took pleasure at any small sign of satisfaction when her efforts were successful. Although Morgause never said so, Morgana’s sister was pleased with her quickly-developing magical ability. Her sister’s approval had become dear to her, and she quickly revised her opinion if ever her sister seemed disappointed in anything she did or said.

There was only one way in which Morgana felt she let her sister down and try as she might she could not change her feelings. Morgause had discerned that Morgana was less upset at having been poisoned than she was at who had done it. Her sister did not understand why the actions of a serving boy would cause such hurt at his betrayal instead of outrage at the temerity of a mere servant daring to meddle in the affairs of his betters. Morgause was quick to point out the importance of their sacred duty to end Uther’s reign of terror. Morgana never met King Cenred until Fryien Castle, but when Morgause returned from one of their meetings, the contempt in her tone as much as her careful instructions demonstrated how pawns should be treated. Morgana tried to emulate that single-minded focus, the utter disregard for anyone who was in the way or whose usefulness was spent. The only people who counted, whose actions were of any importance, were Camelot’s rulers and the two sisters who were going to overthrow them to bring back the Old Ways.

Another new experience was learning the rituals and beliefs of the Old Religion which had been entirely absent from Morgana’s life until she was living with her sister. Morgause devoutly undertook her sister’s education in the significance of the turning of the sun and moon to the calendar of observances and festivals with patience and care. They travelled to the Isle of the Blessed when required even though few others joined them in the sacred practices.

When Morgana realized the seasons had passed one after the other and she had been with Morgause for a whole year, she had been shocked at how fast the months had sped by. It was already time to put Morgause’s next plan into action. That plan had involved Morgana’s brief return to a parody of her previous life in Camelot’s citadel. It should have been only a few weeks, but when a combination of bad luck and the same troublesome serving boy thwarted their initial attack, Morgana’s stay in the city stretched into months. At the end of that time, her life was turned upside down yet again.

All of Morgause’s funds had gone into provisioning their immortal army, certain that Camelot’s riches would replenish their coffers once Morgana was on the throne. The little that had been left after their escape from the city barely sustained the two of them while Morgana nursed her sister through the next soul-shriveling year. One by one the servants left to find food and a bed elsewhere until eventually Morgana was forced to take on all the chores as well as nursing Morgause. Her magic helped but it did not take the place of a household of servants. To her frustration, Morgana found she could heat a pot of soup with a glance but the potatoes in the stew would still be raw. And there was no dressmaking spell. She had heard of enchantments to conjure a rose or even a living creature like a butterfly and yet magic could not create a stitched garment fitted to size with just a blink. _Of course_ , she mused now she about that, _if magic could conjure a fine wardrobe Merlin would be better dressed_.

During those agonizing months of watching her sister die slowly, Morgana had learned more than she ever wanted to know about gathering firewood, growing vegetables, berry picking, cooking, cleaning, and sewing. She had grudgingly earned a new appreciation for Gwen’s skill as a seamstress. Morgana had abandoned the horses, unable to afford feed and unwilling to waste precious hours tending the large, smelly beasts. She had always loved horses when there were stable hands and grooms to care for them. Now they had become a burden. Finally she and Morgause had to abandon the keep, lugging all their worldly goods in a rickety hand cart to take shelter in a wooden hut.

It was Morgana who proposed the alliance with Agravaine. She had been pleased to contribute such a strong ally to further the dream which had cost Morgause her health. Morgana was determined her sister’s final moments would be filled with pride at how she put into practice all she had learned about controlling pawns. One comfort now was that Morgause would never know her sacrifice had been in vain, that Camelot had not fallen to the Dorocha or to any of the plans Morgana put in motion afterward, ending in the final showdown in Camelot’s throne room. Emrys had intended to kill her then, she had no doubt. And she would have died in the forest were it not for the Druids who found her and healed her. And now her life had been upended one more time.

The Druids asked no questions of her, merely accepted her presence and allowed her to assume her own place among them. Morgana participated in the rituals and ceremonies of the Old Religion yet they were different in subtle ways from those her sister had taught her: the tempo of the music faster or slower and there were occasional word changes which indicated a different translation of an ancient story. Still the familiarity was comforting as was the ability to use magic. It was not unusual for someone to ease a heavy workload with an incantation when it was useful and virtually all the Druids could communicate in the silent mind-speech.

It was similar to her existence of the past year: she mended her clothes, gathered and prepared food, and tended to her own needs. It was also a very different existence to do so as part of a community. Virtually all tasks were shared and each member knew his or her role. The elderly took care of the youngest, teaching the little ones with wisdom and patience. The adult men and women did the work required to supply the community with all its needs.

Morgana had little time to spend with Mordred. After the communal morning meal, he left with the other young men to do men’s chores and she would not see him again until the evening meal. She assumed his transition from being with the children to working with the men was recent given the way he strutted to join the other young men in a way common to boys asserting their manhood.

Morgana drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them as the shadow of the rock poking up from the ground in front of her lengthened. The breeze that had kept her cool during the hard work of the day faded and with it the rustle of leaves died away. The sky grew dark in the east although a streak of blue still tinged the west, the sounds of insects and daytime creatures ceased but the sounds of nighttime creatures had not yet begun. In the silence and dusk Morgana got to her feet and returned to her crude bed for sleep.

***

Less than a week later, as Morgana began her evening meal, she glanced up to see Iseldir rise from his spot on the ground and leave his barely-touched trencher of food behind. It was not entirely strange and certainly not forbidden for someone to get up and leave during mealtime, but before she returned her attention to her own food, Morgana noted several others staring intently after the elder. As she resumed eating, she kept an eye out for the grey-haired man’s return.

Before she had finished her meal, Morgana saw Iseldir rejoin the group followed closely by the man she had been expecting to see since Ruadan’s visit. She watched as Iseldir invited Merlin to join them for the meal, saw the dark-haired man refuse, saw him glance around the Druids sitting haphazardly on the ground as they ate. Several acknowledged his presence as though they knew him well. He wore the same old jacket but his tunic and pants were of higher quality and better made than his servant’s garb.

The last time she had seen him had been in Camelot’s throne room. Although Arthur’s forces had retaken the city from Helios’ fighters, she had remained confident she could keep the throne, sure Merlin had been neutralized. Arthur’s death would cement her position as the sole heir to Camelot. Instead Merlin had stopped her – again – and his final strike had been intended to kill her. She had transported herself away from where she landed on the hard flagstones of the throne room to the forest floor not far from this camp. She concentrated on that last confrontation in an attempt to dredge up fury or despair or even regret but felt nothing other than a flicker of her old anger.

She saw Merlin’s eyes grow wide when they met hers, glimpses of all the emotions she no longer felt flashing in the blue depths. He stared until Iseldir captured his attention again, gesturing in Morgana’s direction along with whatever the elder was saying. After a few minutes both men turned to look at her.

 _Morgana_ , she heard in her mind. _Emrys would like to speak with you_.

For the briefest instant she felt a touch of the fear that name had struck in her since she heard the Cailleach’s prophecy. Then she shrugged and rose to her feet. She walked slowly into the forest, automatically heading in the direction she went each evening until she reached her favourite spot at the edge of the woods overlooking the stretch of rocky ground. She had not checked to see if he was following but she knew he was behind her when she came to a stop. She turned to face him.

“You tried to kill me.” The accusation slipped out before she knew she was going to say the words.

“You stole my magic.” Despite his guarded expression, the coldness in his tone revealed how much that blow had hurt him.

“And yet when you arrived in throne room with Arthur you had power enough to try to destroy me.”

His restraint slipped a little and she saw remorse in his face quickly replaced by anger. “I asked you to make peace with Arthur. It was safe for magic again in Camelot, you had no reason to attack the city. All the people who died or were injured – it was for nothing!”

She knew he was right. Arthur was still king, he had married Guinevere, and magic had been restored; she had not changed anything. All her plans had failed, the assault had been pointless. But what right did Merlin have to censure her after all he had done? Outrage crept into her tone. “You are in no position to condemn my actions. I thought you were my friend, you told me I could trust you, and then you poisoned me!”

Red tinged his cheeks but his tone remained cold. “I had no choice.”

Her green eyes flashed. “There is always a choice.”

“And you made yours!” he shouted.

She saw him take a breath, trying to reign in his own rage and it infuriated her that _he_ thought he had any reason to be angry at _her_ for that despicable act.

“I read every scrap of information I could find on that sleeping spell,” he said hoarsely.

So, too late he had tried to find another way.

“I learned that the person who acts as the vessel for that enchantment must do so willingly.” He pinned her with an accusatory glare. “The person who acts as the vessel has to _agree_. You purposely helped Morgause render everyone helpless so she could murder us all – Uther, Arthur, Leon, Gaius, the knights, the members of Council, everyone who served Camelot faithfully – she would have removed all of us to complete her coup and you agreed to help her!”

Morgana was taken aback by the condemnation. She had not at that time planned to kill anyone, she only wanted Uther deposed so she could live without fear. She tried to recall exactly what had been said between her and Morgause at that meeting in the woods in the dark of night. “I only agreed I was with her, not with Uther, and I would help bring about his downfall,” Morgana said. “I never thought about anyone being killed.”

The flush of anger faded from Merlin’s face and he paled. “Then it is my fault,” he whispered.

“But you would do the same again?” she asked quietly.

He steeled his features even though his eyes were anguished. “Yes,” he said. “It broke my heart but I couldn’t stand by and watch everyone else I loved die, either. But you – you’ve never regretted anything you’ve done. You knew what Morgause planned for me when you caught me spying and you were confident I wouldn’t survive the Serkets but you never looked back, then when I did show up alive you would have gladly cut me down in the crypt. And you threw me against the wall of your chamber and left me to burn to death without a second thought.”

“I didn’t intend to kill you then, you grabbed me and I reacted.” It was the first time she had called that kind of power and she had been pleased to be able to do it. “The fire was an accident. It was not planned the way you poisoned the water and urged me to drink it.” That barb struck home.

“There was no other way even though it was agony for me to do that.”

It was guilt and not triumph she saw in his eyes. She was also aware that although her powers had grown, as had her knowledge of how to use them, even now her magic would not be a match for what Merlin had thrown against her. Emrys. Her doom.

She remembered the good-natured, clumsy serving boy she had assumed him to be, remembered, too, something she used to see in his expression; something that might still be buried there. She thought suddenly how strange it was that she had used every weapon against him except one. She had threatened him with Uther’s vengeance, fought him with a sword, attacked him with magic, but she had never used the tool Morgause had controlled King Cenred with, the tool Morgana herself had wielded so successfully against Agravaine. Why had she never considered that the best weapon against a powerful warlock would be something so _human_? She looked at his thin form with his large ears and high cheekbones and blue eyes and silently admitted why she had never used _that_ weapon with him, because that trap would ensnare her as well.

He watched her apprehensively as she moved closer until she was standing directly in front of him. Her eyes dropped to the opening in his shirt at the base of his throat where a little of his chest could be seen. He was dressed in finer clothing than he used to wear, the often-present neck scarf absent. She pressed her palm against the bit of exposed chest, sliding her right hand up his neck into his dark hair and her left hand into his hair on the other side until she was cradling his face. Her gaze followed her hands, then moved to his mouth. She brought her lips close to his, not quite touching, and waited, uncertain how he would react. Her gaze moved up from his lips to meet his eyes. The blue had darkened considerably, then abruptly his arms came around to crush her closer and his lips came down hard on hers.

The passion in his kiss surprised her. Momentarily she wondered at the strength in his embrace before she recalled that he had spent his life doing manual labour, then all conscious thought left her and the trap snapped back and caught her, too.

She had lost any sense of time when they broke apart to catch their breaths. She leaned her forehead against his chest, her hands in his hair, his arms clasping her tightly, and tried to sort through the wash of emotion.

After several moments, she realized he probably thought she was over-reacting to what was merely a kiss but, when she raised her head to look at him, she saw the same bemusement that she felt. Then he expertly masked whatever he was thinking and took a hurried step away from her, dropping his arms to his sides. She said nothing, watching the dark blue in his eyes fade to its normal hue as she tried to calm her wildly beating heart.

“I have to go,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She watched him turn to leave. “Merlin,” she said. He paused but did not look back at her. “I’ll be in this spot tomorrow evening.”

His back stiffened but he did not reply. After he walked away, Morgana stared out across the gently sloping landscape, green and lush except where rocks protruded. Then she returned to the camp to do her part in cleaning up after the meal.


	2. Beginning Again - Interim

The next day Morgana berated herself every time she caught her glance wandering from her tasks to scan the area around the camp. As they began to prepare the evening meal, she told herself yet again there was absolutely no indication Merlin would return this evening. Whatever it was he had come to find out, most likely to determine whether or not she posed an immediate threat to Arthur or Camelot, he had gotten the information he needed yesterday; it would have been clear she was in no position to raise an army nor were the Druids planning any kind of revolt. Iseldir must have explained how they found her and what she had been doing these past months.

Still, her gaze kept wandering until she inadvertently sliced into her finger instead of the herbs she was chopping. She dropped her knife and popped the injured finger into her mouth to suck the wound clean, then she whispered a spell to stop the bleeding and knit the cut flesh back together. None of the other women did more than glance over. Cursing herself again for her own foolishness, Morgana bent her head to her tasks.

 

As she made her way through the trees after the evening meal had been eaten and everything cleaned and put away, Morgana reminded herself that she went to this spot nearly every evening. Tonight was no different, despite the strange fluttering in her stomach. Yet she could not halt a rush of disappointment when she arrived to find her private spot was as empty as it always was. She sat down on the softest spot of ground and drew her legs up inside the red robe to rest her head on her knees.

She refused to dwell on yesterday’s kiss, which had been easier to do when she was busy during the day. Now that she was here in the place that particular event had occurred with no tasks to occupy her, it was harder to rein in her thoughts. She concentrated on the betrayal she had felt when Merlin deliberately poisoned her and the anger and bitterness that had sustained her in the past, but what had been a burning sense of righteousness was only ashes.

The sounds of small creatures rustling through the undergrowth stilled and Morgana heard footfalls approach. She tensed but refused to show any outward sign of her anxiousness. Slowly she turned her head to see Merlin standing not far away, watching her guardedly.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said.

He stepped closer and it seemed that he had debated with himself before he took that step.

“Gaius told me not to return here,” he added.

So he had told his guardian she was alive and he had found her. Her lips thinned. She remembered thinking the old physician could not possibly assist her with learning about her magic because he would not consider defying Uther, but she knew now Gaius had been doing exactly that for his ward for years. Helping him when the old man would not so much as admit to her she had power. He was so protective of this boy while leaving her to struggle on her own even though she had depended on him.

“He doesn’t trust you,” Merlin said.

Her temper flared. “And you do?”

“Not in the slightest.”

He was deliberately trying to provoke her. She gritted her teeth without replying.

“But I have the advantage of knowing you are afraid of me.”

At that she leapt to her feet and closed the distance between them, standing in front of him with her hands clenched. “I am not afraid of you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Her arm lifted to slap the smirk off his face but as he had done once before he caught her hand before it could connect with his face. His grip on her wrist was the only point of physical contact between them. An instant later she was locked to him from head to foot, their lips pressed together, her arms around his neck and his arms around her back clasping her to him with surprising strength.

Then the kiss gentled and her hands slipped into his hair again, caressing and exploring. His hands began to move, one sliding up her back and the other moving lower to press her hips closer.

Morgana opened her mouth slightly and touched her tongue to his lips, encouraging them to open. He gasped and she slid her tongue inside his mouth, deepening the kiss. He clasped her tighter before he broke the kiss to gulp in a breath.

Her hands reached to undo the tie that belted his clothing, making short work of the knot and then grasping the bottom of the shirt to lift it over his head. He raised his arms to allow her to remove the garment. Once the shirt had been discarded, she ran her hands slowly up his chest, feeling each bump, brushing through the dusting of hair to caress his nipples before moving further up to his shoulders and watching the muscles tighten.

His hands moved to fumble with the ties on her robe. She stepped back to shed her outer garment, laying it across the soft spot of ground and then reaching to undo the laces of her dress.

He stared in fascination and she was gratified by the glazed look on his face as she dropped the last of her clothing to the ground. She moved closer again to lay her hands on his waist and slide her fingers inside the waist band, inching closer to the ties that held his breeches on.

He grasped her wrists to stop her. Then he undid the restrictive lacings himself to remove the final piece of clothing and his boots before he kissed her again. Their lips still joined and their hands making quick exploration of the other’s body, they dropped to their knees on the garment she had laid out on the ground, then stretched out fully, side by side.

He broke the kiss. “I don’t know … I’ve never …” he gasped hoarsely.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said softly, bringing her mouth to his again.

 

The second time was better than the first, Morgana decided as she lay quietly, her legs entangled with Merlin’s and her hand moving slowly across his chest.

“I should go,” he said softly.

Her hand stilled.

“Gaius will be waiting anxiously until I get back.”

 _Ah, yes_ , she thought. Anxious that his precious ward had survived his most recent encounter with her. “I’m sure he is quite concerned.” She made no attempt to hide her bitter tone.

“Considering our history he has good reason.”

Her gaze snapped to meet his, not certain from his tone if he was teasing or warning but his blue eyes were inscrutable. She sat up to collect her clothes. As she dressed, she was conscious of him doing the same but she refused to watch him or to discover if he was looking at her.

When she shook the dirt and leaves off her robe and swung it over her shoulders, she realized he was standing quite still, simply watching. Her eyes came up to meet his, seeing the blue had darkened again. He drew in a breath and his mouth opened but he hesitated, then simply said, “Goodbye,” and walked away.

After the last of his footfalls faded in the distance, she sat down to watch the shadows lengthen on the ground and dark spread across the sky until the blue had been entirely replaced with black. She called a light to her palm to guide her footsteps through the forest back to her bed.

***

Every evening for the next week, after her work was done, Morgana headed to her favourite spot at the edge of the wooded area that protected the Druid camp. Every evening she told herself she did this out of habit and not because she was waiting for Merlin, but her head snapped around at every noise which might indicate someone’s approach. Nor could she deny the heavy feeling of disappointment that dragged her footsteps after the sun had set on her lonely vigil.

Tonight she decided she would not spend the entire evening sitting there alone. She would linger a few moments to gather her thoughts and enjoy the familiar view, then she would return to camp early. She was still telling herself that when she stepped from the trees and halted at the sight of Merlin sitting on her favourite soft spot of ground, waiting.

She tamped down the feeling of excitement that set her heart beating faster and her stomach clenching. Schooling her features, she came forward slowly and sat beside him in the same place she sat every evening. She did not look at him but she was aware of him watching her.

“I wanted to come back sooner,” he said.

Her eyes snapped to his at that but she bit her tongue on the sharp retort that sprang to her lips.

“Gaius was worried for me and he told them where I had been the … the other night.”

She saw a flush stain his cheeks.

“He must have guessed …”

The cheeks got redder and the flush crept down his neck.

“Anyway they know you are alive …”

He did not say who _they_ were although it likely included her brother.

“… but not where you are and I feared they might follow me if I came back here after they warned me not to.”

Her surprise must have shown on her face at that. Was he _protecting_ her? She cautioned herself not to read too much into that, he had made it clear time and again where his loyalties lay.

“I had to come up with a creative way to ensure no one followed me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched and she caught herself about to smile at him. The strangeness of wanting to smile at him after all that had happened in the past few years was sobering, and whatever her expression was it caused him to fall silent, regarding her solemnly.

His hand came up to touch her cheek, his thumb brushing across her lips, then he bent and captured her mouth with his. She saw the well-remembered darkening of his eyes before her own fluttered closed and her arms came up to wrap around him.

***

Morgana wondered if anyone in the camp was aware she sometimes had company when she disappeared in the evening to her private spot at the edge of the forest, and if any of the Druids would care if they knew. Clearly her old “friends” in Camelot both knew and cared about the visits since Merlin’s expression when he arrived was sometimes troubled and sometimes harried. So many people concerned about him when there was no one to be worried about her, other than to worry what she might do next.

This evening as he approached his face had the troubled look. She waited without speaking, chin resting on her knees, comfortable on the soft grass with the trees at her back and the ground stretching away in front of her. He sat beside her but made no move to touch her.

“Arthur wants to know what you are planning,” Merlin finally said. She could feel his eyes on her. “Whatever his personal feelings, you must understand that he is responsible for the safety of his people.”

 _Planning_. She had been living day to day since the Druid healers saved her, studiously avoiding any thought of the future. She was sick to death of planning; it was all so pointless in the end. Every attempt to take Camelot’s throne had failed miserably, her sister was dead, and her grand dream of returning magic to the kingdom had been accomplished even though she had had no part in it. She had no funds, no allies. She could happily live the rest of her life among the Druids and never make another plan for him to interfere with.

“If I were planning something,” she muttered, “I would hardly be likely to tell _you_.” The hurt expression on his face made her angry. “If you had not gotten in the way we would have restored magic to Camelot years sooner.”

“You still don’t understand!” he said and she was taken aback by the vehemence of his outburst. “You cannot force people at swordpoint to accept us. If you had taken Camelot by force and executed the rightful king it would have become impossible to convince anyone that magic is not entirely evil.” He raked his hands through his hair as he stared at her.

“I was the one who stood up to Uther, not you. I’m the one that those with magic put their hopes in,” she said.

“What makes you think so? Did you ever ask? You never bothered to find out who had magic when you marched an army across the kingdom cutting down anyone who stood in its path. Or asked whose crops you ordered burned. You never asked what any of us wanted, whether we wanted revenge or just to live our lives without fear and without being feared.”

Her mouth opened and closed but she could not form words to refute his statements. “What do you want?” she finally asked.

“Peace.”

He said it with such conviction, so certain of his vision for the future. She thought about all that Morgause had drummed into her, the oft-repeated claims that Uther would never change his attitude toward sorcery (which had been true) and that Arthur was just like his father (which Morgana had known was not true but accepted because her sister said it was so). “You think we’ll achieve peace by waiting for people to accept us?”

“Arthur will unite the lands of Albion and I will help him do it. But there won’t be lasting peace until you've ended your war with him.”

Morgause had said repeatedly that the only hope for their people was for Morgana to take the throne. Agravaine, too, had told her the Crown was hers for the taking. Certainly she had more right to be queen than her former maidservant. Out of all of them Gwen should have shown the most loyalty to her mistress but she had sided instead with her lover. Morgana could not expect the same from Merlin; he would undoubtedly remain loyal to Arthur, not to her.

“Morgause was the only one in the world who ever put me first and you killed her.” She took pleasure in having wiped the self-righteous glare off his face. “My sister and I only wanted to end the reign of a hypocritical dictator.”

“And replace him with another intolerant dictator,” Merlin said. “I had to stop her.”

“Would you stop me even now if you thought I was a threat to Arthur?” At his stricken look she closed her eyes and shook her head. “Never mind, I know the answer to that.”

“Morgana, please,” he began but she cut him off.

“Just go and leave me alone.” She did not open her eyes until after he had left.


	3. Beginning Again - Moving On

In the days that followed, Morgana busied herself with various chores in the evenings and refused to allow herself to return to her refuge at the edge of the forest. She was glad when dark clouds opened up, the heavy rains spurring everyone to take cover when they could and deterring any leisurely walk in the woods. For two days the wind and wet gave her an excuse to spend her free time huddled in any available shelter with the others until on the third day the sky began to clear, the black clouds were replaced by grey, and shafts of sunlight broke through. By the fourth night she missed her solitude so much that she decided to walk in the opposite direction from camp in search of another private place to sit and think. On the fifth night she found herself back in her favourite spot with her legs tucked up and her chin on her knees, thankful to be alone.

Despite her efforts to hold onto her tranquil indifference to her own future, she found herself pondering Merlin’s query about her plans. In a way it was the first time in her life that she was responsible to choose her own path, not subject to the will of parents or guardian or sister.

Although Morgana found it difficult to picture herself staying with the Druids forever, nor could she dredge up any will to continue her quest for the crown. It was impossible for her to return to Camelot where she would be branded a traitor; the people would not tolerate her presence in the city and she had no desire to live out her days hiding in the citadel – if Arthur even chose to allow her to return. Under no circumstances would she go back to living as a lonely fugitive in a hovel. She would be less despised in the other kingdoms, but that course of action was likewise unappealing. She was not willing to examine why she wanted to stay close to Camelot.

Her thoughts went around in circles as the evening grew darker. At length she sighed and returned to camp to toss and turn in her sleep.

***

The next evening Morgana heard his approach while brooded over the same questions she had struggled with the previous day about where she would go and what she would do now. It had been easier, she thought, when she lived day to day in a cloud of apathy.

Merlin stopped short instead of coming to sit beside her and finally she turned to see him standing awkwardly holding a bundle wrapped in cloth. Puzzled, she looked at him.

“Gwen said you left these behind when you … disappeared from Camelot.”

An accusatory glint came into her eyes as he skipped over exactly _how_ she had been forced from the city without any possessions except the clothes on her back, repeatedly, and she was gratified that he had the grace to look guilty.

He held out the bundle. “Gwen wanted me to pass them on to you.”

Morgana stared at the cloth-wrapped packet for several moments before she rose to take it from him. She opened it slowly, guessing what it might be and reluctant to confirm that Gwen – the woman she had considered disloyal, whom she had reviled for taking her rightful place as queen – had been thoughtful enough to gather these items and send them to her despite everything Morgana had done. She stared down at the brush, mirror, and jewellery that were all she had of her father’s gifts. Her real father, the man who had told her bedtime stories and taught her how to hold a sword. Gwen had known exactly how much Morgana treasured these few keepsakes.

A tear came to her eye and she brushed it away. “Give her my thanks.” It was meant to sound cool but Morgana was horrified to hear her voice break. Hastily clearing her throat, Morgana turned her back on Merlin. “You’ve completed your errand. You can go now.”

To her further mortification she heard him come closer instead of leaving. She stiffened when his arms came around her but in the next instant she found herself crying with her head on his shoulder. He held her without speaking.

When she eventually composed herself she was reluctant to move, enjoying the feeling of standing with his arms around her, his hand gently caressing her back. Finally she tipped her head back to look up at him. The look in his eyes made her catch her breath.

Her hands still clutched the bundle of keepsakes. Carefully Morgana rewrapped them in the piece of cloth and set them gently aside. Merlin’s arms dropped from around her when she moved away but otherwise he did not stir, continuing to stand where he was. After she had set the precious bundle down she removed her robe and stepped closer to him, reaching to undo the cord belted around his waist so she could slip her hands under his shirt. He groaned and pressed her closer.

 

Later, as they lay side by side on the robe she had spread on the grass, she voiced a question that had been on her mind. “What is it like in Camelot now that people know you are a sorcerer?”

His expression told her it was not idyllic. “Gwen and the knights and George,” Morgana’s brow wrinkled, wondering who George was, “have been good friends but some others, some of the other knights and a few of those on Council, are less accepting.” She could imagine how much of an understatement that was. “And of course there are people who want me to use my power for their own personal gain, and every one of them is convinced their personal goals are for the greater good. They are often quite put out that I don’t see it the same way.”

“How did Arthur react when you told him?”

A remorseful look came over his face. “I didn’t tell him. I should have, but I didn’t. One of my many mistakes.”

“Was not telling me a mistake? When I begged you to admit to me that I had magic? When I was alone and scared and needed a friend?”

“I am sorry I let you leave that day without saying what you needed to hear,” he said sincerely. “I wanted so much to tell you, but …”

She sat up and looked down sharply at him, her brow furrowing at the ‘but’.

He met her gaze without flinching. “But I would not have helped you in your efforts to overthrow Uther and you and Morgause would have struck at me sooner if you had known.”

“You can’t know that. You certainly couldn’t have known that at the time.”

“That’s true,” he said quietly.

“We were friends then, yet you didn’t trust me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I never told anyone, even my friends. It wasn’t safe for me or for them.”

She had magic, too, though, that should have made a difference. “How _did_ Arthur find out?” she asked.

He gave her a sidelong glance. “A man showed up in Camelot looking to steal the last piece of a key that would open the tomb of Ashkanar which was supposed to contain the last known dragon egg.”

“A dragon egg?” Morgana said in awe.

“Of course, Arthur’s immediate reaction was to follow the thief to destroy the dragon and I went along intending to do everything I could to save the egg. Which I did, but I didn’t quite make it out of the tomb in time to hide the egg before Arthur and the knights got there. In our – dispute – I ended up with the infant dragon safely hatched but I was banished.”

“Hatched? A baby dragon? That must have been the most wonderful thing!” Morgana was fascinated.

“That’s not what most people think.” Merlin regarded her rapt face with wonder. “Dragons are not the most welcome creatures in Camelot.”

She met his eyes, recalling the stories she had heard about the Great Dragon’s attack on the city and the devastation the creature had caused. Her eyebrows drew together. “There is something more you are not telling me because you don’t trust me to know.”

Merlin puffed out a breath and flopped backward, staring up at her. “That’s right.” Without warning he blanched. “Babies,” he whispered, eyes locked on her face.

“What about them?” she asked innocently.

“I just thought … what if something we’ve done …”

“You don’t know how babies are made, Merlin?” she asked drily.

He grinned slightly at that. “I grew up in a farming community and I apprentice to a physician; I am familiar with the mechanics. But I never studied any of those kinds of spells.” His tone conveyed his discomfort.

“If you’re trying to ask if I know spells to prevent pregnancy, of course I do. They are much simpler than enchantments to deal with the consequences of not preventing that condition in the first place. And you have no reason to worry.” She hoped her hurt was not too obvious. “I can well imagine you would not want to be in that predicament with _me_.”

By the way his expression softened she was afraid she had betrayed her feeling of rejection.

“Morgana, I am only concerned because I grew up without a father. I never knew anything about him, even his name.”

“Oh.” Morgana realized she had never thought about that despite having been in Ealdor.

“I would not willingly put a child of mine in that same position and since I have no idea what our relationship is, I wanted to know.”

She nodded and dropped her eyes to stare at the ground.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said softly.

She raised her eyebrows without answering.

“Why didn’t you tell Arthur about your magic?”

“It was no secret after Morgause took the city and arranged for my coronation.”

“But before that,” he said. “Why didn’t you go to him before that and try to enlist his help? You know he never went along with all of Uther’s madness. You were in a better position to change his mind than I was.”

“Don’t be too sure about that,” she muttered. “Besides, you know Arthur had no influence over his father. Uther threw his own son into the dungeon for a week after Arthur defied him to save your life. I would only have succeeded in putting him in a position of committing treason along with me, like I did when I asked him to rescue Mordred.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

He lightly ran one hand up and down her arm. She shivered when he caressed the skin in the crook of her elbow, his eyes locked on hers. If he had been caught gazing so boldly at her when she was the king’s ward he could have ended up in the stocks, but it had been years now since she held such a rank in Camelot’s court except, she thought wryly, for her exceedingly brief stints as queen. Now he was openly acknowledged as King Arthur’s advisor and right hand and she was an outcast. Everything had changed so drastically and yet some things had not changed at all, like the fluttering in her stomach when he turned those blue eyes on her.

She leaned over him, palms flat on the ground at either side of his head, gratified when his gaze locked on to her breasts. When his hands followed the direction of his stare she brought her lips down onto his.

***

Morgana was pleased when visitors from another Druid tribe arrived. They shared an early meal together and she enjoyed the storytelling from both the visitors and from elders in her own camp. The Druid children had heard these stories growing up, but for Morgana most of the tales were new and exciting. She had heard versions of the legends of Emrys, markedly similar in many ways to prophecies Morgause had shared with her although there were key differences in interpretation, but it was the historical tales Morgana most liked to hear.

Originally she had been shocked that none of the Druid history was written down, unable to comprehend that such knowledge could be stored only in spoken word. She wondered at first how oral stories could be as accurate as written texts, but as she listened to multiple accounts of an event, each historian relating details down to the clothing worn by the participants and the weather on that day, she realized the truth of the story was verified by those details. At the same time subtle nuances varied from storyteller to storyteller, giving different but compatible perspectives on recorded events.

At times she recognized the locations of the tales, but generally the names of townsites and rivers and mountains were referred to by what she realized were much older names for those places. She began to understand how the ancient name revealed the importance of a place to the history being shared in the tale. She thought about the names she had had – Lady Morgana, the king’s ward, Morgana Pendragon, queen, witch – although many would dispute that she ever had a valid claim to the Pendragon name. No one in this camp referred to her by any of those labels or used any title in speaking with her; she was known simply as Morgana and she wondered what the significance of that was to her own personal history.

For so long she had allowed others to dictate her beliefs and her actions. She contemplated what Morgause would have done now Arthur was king and magic was no longer banned, but there was no way to know because Morgause had never considered the possibility and Morgana realized she had not, either. She had unquestioningly accepted her sister’s single-minded drive to depose him, had allowed Agravaine’s thirst for revenge and Helios’ lust for power to incite hers. Alone and without funds she had little hope of a successful bid for Camelot’s throne, nor could she claim that she was doing so for the good of those with magic.

The undemanding acceptance of the Druid people and the mindlessness of daily tasks here had been what she needed to regain her equilibrium, but as comfortable as her existence was, the Druid camp would not be her refuge much longer. Nor could Camelot be her home when she was not welcome in or near the city, perhaps not in the entire kingdom. She considered all the possible places in all the kingdoms where she might build a life for herself, where she could enjoy the comforts she had always known and yet finally be independent and free to practice her magic. When the answer came to her it felt right, the place she belonged, although she knew it would require King Arthur’s cooperation.

***

She had not seen Merlin for several days. It frustrated her that she had come to a decision and now she could not put it into action, so when she arrived at her forest refuge to find him waiting her tone was more clipped than she intended. “I want you to arrange a meeting for me with Arthur.”

He gave her a surprised look.

“You can be there for protection and he can bring a whole legion of knights if he feels safer,” she snapped.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes,” she said, dropping to the ground and pulling up a handful of grass to watch it blow away in the wind.

“You are not coming back to Camelot, are you?”

She studiously avoided looking directly at him but his tone made her believe he was unhappy about her leaving. Or she was reading into his voice what she wanted to hear.

“You must know how impossible that would be.” She regretted the harsh sound in her voice. “Even if Arthur chose not to execute me for treason, even if I was allowed to live out my days somewhere other than a dungeon, I would never be able to show my face in the city.” She pulled up another handful of grass while she waited but he said nothing. “You could come with me.” The words were out, making her heart pound painfully as she waited for a response, certain of his refusal but unable to crush a glimmer of hope.

The silence stretched out until her nerves were at the breaking point. Finally she looked at him. His expression of regret made her shake her head at her own foolishness for asking. “Never mind, I know you would never leave Arthur’s side for a woman.” At his indrawn breath something flashed in his eyes. “Or at least you would never leave Camelot for _me_ ,” she amended, staring at him, recognizing the mortification on his face.

“It was a long time ago and it was doomed from the start,” he said. “If I had left with her, I would have regretted it.”

“But surely now, now that Arthur has changed the laws, what more does he need you for?” She hated that it sounded like pleading.

“It’s my destiny to be at his side, advising him and protecting him.” He reached out and grasped her hand, brushing the grass away before he linked his fingers with hers. “As much as I want to be with you.”

Well, she had known she would never come first with him so she could hardly blame him for the way his rejection crushed her now.

“Would you tell me where you are going?” he asked quietly.

“To Tintagel.”

His forehead crinkled.

“It was my fath … my parents’ keep, where I grew up,” she said. “It is beyond the Darkling Woods, far from the path Cenred’s troops took as they marched on Camelot. I hope those at Tintagel fondly remember me as a child and will welcome me back.”

“So it is not far, it is within Camelot?” He was still holding her hand, staring down at their joined fingers.

“Yes.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Which is why I need to talk to Arthur. I want a truce – to live there in peace.” She raised her eyes to his only to be jolted by the radiance of the smile lighting his face.

“I’ll arrange the meeting.”

The enthusiasm in his voice gave her pause. “Are you so certain he’s willing to speak with me?”

He gave her a crooked grin. “I’ll tell him to.”

***

In only two days the arrangements were made. They agreed the meeting would take place not far from the Druid camp because no one considered it advisable for Morgana to be seen in the city or even on any of the well-travelled roads closest to Camelot. Arthur and a contingent of his knights would wait at the appointed place and Merlin would escort her there. She expected that Gwen would be at her husband’s side.

Merlin met her in the camp before the sun was at its zenith. She balked to see he was leading only his own horse, with no extra mount for her.

He puffed out a breath at her stubborn expression. “It is not that far, we could walk there in an hour if you would rather.”

“No thank you. I’ve done nothing but walk anywhere for months now," she said peevishly.

He swung into the saddle and reached out a hand to help her up behind him. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “I ride in front.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s my horse and you can ride behind me.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because.” A tinge of red touched his cheeks. “I do not want you sitting practically in my lap.”

Her eyebrows rose. “So sharing a horse won’t bother you if you’re sitting in front?”

The tinge of red grew darker. “Not as much, no.”

With a slight smile, she accepted his hand and swung up to sit behind him, inching forward until she was pressed against him and breathed softly against his neck. She leaned even closer until her breasts were flattened against his back causing him to freeze for a moment before he set the horse in motion. Her hands rested lightly on his waist. As they rode, she slid her palms slowly across his stomach until they met, then moved her hands downward.

“Morgana,” he croaked.

She smiled to herself, not halting the downward motion of her fingers. Abruptly he stopped the horse.

“Something the matter?” she asked innocently.

“It is exceedingly uncomfortable verging on painful to ride a horse in this condition,” he growled. “Perhaps you would prefer to be in front?”

The forced politeness in his tone when he made the offer should have warned her but, gratified at having gotten her way so quickly and easily, she slid forward as soon as he dismounted. He swung up again behind her.

As she took the reins and motioned the horse to continue she felt him shuffle forward. She smiled to herself, fully intending to ignore the ploy, when the feeling of a hard bulge pressing against her bottom caused her stomach to flutter. Gritting her teeth, she urged the horse to move more quickly. When his arms wrapped around her so his hands could grasp her breasts, kneading them as his thumbs brushed across her nipples, she almost dropped the reins and unwittingly let a small gasp escape.

“Could you move your hands a little lower?” she grumbled.

“Of course, my lady.”

Her breath caught when he dropped his hands to the top of her thighs and then ran his fingers up the cloth covering her legs, brushing lightly. She felt his breath stir the tendrils of hair beside her ear.

“Merlin,” she choked.

“Mmmhmmm?” he murmured in her ear. His fingers ran across the tops of her thighs again and then up over her stomach and even higher to brush against her hard nipples again.

She dropped the reins and twisted around as far as she could to capture his lips in a kiss. The horse stopped and somehow both of them dismounted without breaking apart. A hurried glance showed them a grassy spot sheltered by a dense clump of brush which offered at least a little privacy.

“Ouch!” Morgana pulled a twig out from under her and tossed it away.

It was the first time they had made love without removing all their clothing, the urgency of their need surprising her with its intensity.

When it was over they lay still, arms clasped around one another, breathing heavily. As rational thought returned, Morgana raised her head slightly and peered around the clump of bushes.

“Where’s the horse?” she asked.

Merlin looked around. “She’s a smart horse, she’ll find her way to food and water.” His eyes came back to her and the blue darkened. “Where were we?”

 

A short time later they heard hoof beats.

“Maybe it’s my horse coming back for us,” Merlin said hopefully, straightening his clothing before getting to his feet.

It sounded like a horse and rider, not a wandering mount, and Morgana made sure she was fully dressed. She watched Merlin stand to refasten his belt, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he met someone’s eyes.

“Oh, hi, Gwaine,” he said cheerfully.

She made certain all her garments were tied securely and then stood. A knight sat on horseback, regarding both of them with a gaze that was partly worried and partly amused. She recognized him as the dark-haired one whom Agravaine had called a hothead. When the knight’s scrutiny turned to her she was fairly certain she read a warning there, a warning that indicated a sense of protectiveness for Merlin. She lifted her head higher, holding his eyes defiantly.

“Your horse came back riderless,” the knight said. “We were afraid something had happened to you.” Although he addressed Merlin his eyes were still on her.

“No, nothing happened,” Merlin said brightly.

Gwaine’s eyebrows went up. “Nothing happened?”

A flush coloured Merlin’s face. “Shut up, Gwaine.”

The good-natured banter told her these two were friends. The warning stare told her the knight was _not_ kindly disposed toward her. Merlin started walking and she followed, giving the dark-haired knight a nod as he sat on his horse, staring after them.

 

As she walked, Morgana’s mind ran through every possible outcome of the upcoming confrontation with her brother. It occurred to her that if this was a trap to arrest her, Merlin would be her biggest threat. Looking at his tall back she hoped she was not wrong to trust this meeting had been arranged in good faith and Arthur would be open to her proposal.

If she could convince him of her willingness to live peaceably within the kingdom, she believed the king would choose a truce over enforcing justice for her crimes. He had enough respect for her power that he would want to end the hostilities between them as much as she did, for the safety of his people if for no other reason. Whether or not he chose to personally forgive her for her attempts on his life and her assaults on his people was another question entirely.

It was an open stretch of ground, the grass knee-high and a few rocky outcroppings poking out of the dirt. As she approached, Morgana saw Gwen standing by Arthur’s side, several knights ranged around them including Leon, who stepped in front of her to bar her way. She met the blond knight’s unforgiving stare defiantly.

“How could you make me responsible for the deaths of innocent citizens for refusing to bow to you when you had no right to the crown?” Leon demanded coldly.

“How could you have unquestioningly carried out Uther’s orders to arrest people for using magic when you knew they would be executed?” Morgana responded in kind.

“We have all done things we are ashamed of,” Arthur interjected.

Leon clenched his hand on his sword hilt as though he would sooner cut her down where she stood than let her near Arthur. Morgana lifted her chin to hold his gaze unflinchingly until the king gestured for Leon to step aside and Morgana to approach him.

She regarded her brother as she came forward. The last time they stood face to face he had tried to talk to her and she had tried to kill him. She was ashamed now of her jealousy – she had been jealous that he had grown up sure of his place in life, knowing he had his father’s approval, with the power to control his own future. She had let herself be devastated by Uther’s refusal to acknowledge her when it was Gorlois who had been her father in any way that counted. It had been wrong to blame Arthur for her feelings of rejection. She could not fault him now for the hostility in his face.

Morgana glanced at Gwen but the queen’s expression did not appear any more welcoming than her husband’s. Her former maid had traded her self-made servant’s garb for a finely tailored gown in Camelot’s red colour and a royal circlet atop her hair which was artfully dressed with braids framing her face and a cascade of dark curls down her back.

Arthur’s eyes were hard. “Magic is not evil, it does not corrupt those who have it, yet you have repeatedly attempted to take my life and my crown. What have I ever done to earn your hatred?”

Morgana tried to recall the righteous anger she had shared with Morgause, their cause to take the throne and restore magic at any cost. “You made it perfectly clear how you felt about me and my kind.” Even to her own ears it sounded weak.

“I was mistaken, and I will do everything in my power to make amends to those I have wronged.” She saw his eyes flick to something – or someone – behind her. “You know I am not the same as our father.”

“Uther was never my father,” Morgana objected heatedly.

“Yet you have used his name and attempted to take his throne. You were responsible for his death.”

She could feel the tears gathering in her eyes but they did nothing to soften the king’s implacable expression. “Arthur, I do regret some of the things I have done. If I could make amends I would.”

“Are you renouncing the Pendragon name and any claim to the throne of Camelot?”

She was aware of the significance of her answer. For a heartbeat, she felt the weight of her sister’s disapproval. But her sister was dead, and she was alone. “Yes.” Saying it aloud was like shedding a burden, and she knew without a doubt that what she was doing now was right for her. “I want to return home, to my father’s keep.”

Arthur said nothing for a long time, his eyes searching her face. When he finally spoke his tone was a shade warmer. “You have proven yourself to be a dangerous traitor. I cannot put the kingdom at risk by allowing you to live freely within the borders of Camelot.”

Morgana’s heart sank.

“The only possible way to allow you to live at Tintagel is with one of my loyal knights in command of a permanent guard stationed in the keep to ensure your peaceable behaviour. If anything happens to them, I will know.”

That he was proposing a workable solution gave her hope.

Leon stepped forward. “Sire, you know you could trust me to see to your best interest.”

Although she did not look forward to having Leon’s disapproving presence in her home, she had little choice. Arthur could just as easily declare her an enemy of Camelot and force her to continue living as an outcast as long as she remained in the kingdom.

“Thank you, Leon.” Arthur said. “But I need my First Knight in Camelot.”

“Sire, if I may be so bold,” Elyan stepped forward next. “You know you can rely on my loyalty.”

The king looked at his knight thoughtfully and then turned to Guinevere.

“If my brother is willing to be stationed so far from the city, even though I will miss his presence, you can trust he will faithfully fulfill his duty.” She gave Elyan a proud smile.

Arthur nodded at her assessment and turned to his half-sister. He did not smile, but his face had lost its cold and forbidding expression. “If you renounce any claim to the throne you can take up residence in Tintagel, but you will be confined to the keep. Sir Elyan with a contingent of guards will be stationed there and will send me regular reports as well as receive my messengers whenever I choose to send them. You are free to practice the Old Religion, but be warned that although magic is no longer banned in this kingdom, crimes committed using sorcery are subject to our justice.”

“Agreed,” Morgana said softly.

“I will arrange for the packing of your clothing, jewellery, and personal possessions which remain in the palace and will send them to Tintagel,” Guinevere said, her tone cool.

Morgana’s startled gaze jumped to her former maid and, she admitted silently, former friend. “Thank you, Gwen,” she said sincerely. As difficult as it was to accept the other woman’s position as queen, she could not fault Gwen’s graciousness or her thoughtfulness, both admirable qualities in a ruler, nor was she in any position to berate Arthur for giving his heart to a servant.

“Elyan, send word to Tintagel and make your preparations to leave within the week.” Arthur turned to Morgana. “Merlin can escort you back to the Druid camp today and Elyan will ensure your safe passage to Tintagel when all is ready.”

The safety he was concerned about was not hers, she knew, as she gave him a nod of acceptance. He acknowledged her agreement with a nod in return. A wave of regret washed over her for their lost friendship. She turned her eyes to Gwen.

“Goodbye, Morgana,” the queen said softly.

“Goodbye,” Morgana answered before she turned and strode away.

Merlin caught up with her before she was out of sight of the king’s party, the reins of his horse in hand. She refused to look at him, ashamed of the tears in her eyes. Wordlessly, he helped her mount the horse and then swung up behind her, urging the horse back towards the camp she had been living in for so many months.

When she thought she could safely control her voice, she asked, “Do you think they – Arthur and Gwen – have they forgiven me?”

“If they haven’t yet they will,” he answered. “I only hope that in time you will forgive me.”

His simple entreaty hit her with the force of a blow. She stiffened, keeping her eyes fixed ahead and refusing to look back at him. Maybe in time she would, maybe she already had, but too many emotions had buffeted her in recent weeks and she knew it would take her a while to sort through all of them.

***

Although Morgana had not been inside the walls of Tintagel since childhood, the barely-remembered walls of the keep stirred something inside her. An elderly woman waited in the courtyard outside the main doors and Morgana realized with a start it was Hedda; older and thicker in the waist, but recognizably her childhood nurse.

A welcoming smile lit the woman’s face as Morgana’s party approached. Morgana dismounted, handed the reins of her horse to a groom, and rushed immediately to embrace Hedda.

Hedda squeezed her and then held her at arm’s length to look her over. “It does my heart good to see you again, child. And make no mistake,” she said as she sent a hard look at the Camelot knight who was seated on his horse, watching them. “No one here believes half of the foul rumours people who don’t know you have been spreading around this kingdom. I know for a fact you are not capable of such evil, you had your reasons for whatever it was you did.” She lowered her voice. “I hope that king did right by you.”

A cold chill went down Morgana’s spine. “Uther?”

“If you choose to use the Pendragon name, I understand, but Gorlois loved you;, never doubt it for a moment.”

Morgana had hoped the man who raised her had never known the truth, hoped he had been spared that heartbreak. “Did he know Uther was my father?”

“It takes more than a man’s seed to make a father,” Hedda said with a sniff. “But yes, Gorlois can count. So can I, my girl, and you were a healthy, strong baby. I could plainly see you weren’t two months early like she claimed.” She smiled again. “A healthy, headstrong little girl. Come, let me show you to your chambers. You’ll want to make a few changes now you’re a grown woman, but you can take care of that after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

Morgana allowed Hedda to lead her into the keep. Her life was being turned inside out again, but it felt like coming home.

***

It was three weeks before Merlin came to visit her. Morgana did not allow herself to get her hopes up when the maid told her a dark-haired stranger had arrived, so when she saw him standing in the entrance hall a thrill went through her.

She carefully schooled her features. “Merlin,” she greeted him.

He gave a slight bow as she entered. “My lady.”

She was conscious of how different her appearance must be now that she had exchanged the Druid robe for the finery she had been accustomed to wearing until her first exile.

“I came to check how you are,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “And to report back to Arthur if I am keeping the terms of our truce?”

The corners of his mouth twitched at her bluntness. “That, too. But I really did want to check you are okay,” he said earnestly.

She stood facing him and allowed her gaze to wander up and down the length of him. She lingered on his mouth before meeting his eyes. Her stomach did a slow flip flop as she watched him do the same. “As you can see I am fine, thank you. I have everything I need.”

“Everything?” he questioned suggestively, cocking his head slightly.

Her stomach did another flip. “Do you need to inspect the keep? You can’t really report back without doing a thorough inspection. At the least you’ll need to see my bedchamber.”

His eyes darkened considerably but he made no move to close the distance between them. “Morgana, that isn’t the only reason I came here.”

“So you don’t want to see my bedchamber?”

At that he stepped forward to embrace her. “Yes, I do,” he breathed hoarsely before his lips came down hard on hers as his arms clasped her tightly.

When they broke apart to catch their breaths, she clasped his hand and led him to the staircase.

He pulled back slightly. “Will your household be scandalized when they find out?”

“Probably,” she said, tugging him forward again.

“Then are you sure you want to do this?”

She gave an exasperated sigh, then she let go of his hand and cupped his face in her palms while she stretched up to press her lips against his. When he responded she deepened the kiss, slipping her fingers into hair and glorying in the feel of his hands as they slid up her back before moving lower. She ended the kiss and looked at him steadily. “Merlin, yes, I’m sure.”

He made no further protest when she led him up the stairs.

 

It was much later that Morgana arranged for a meal to be served to them in her chambers. They dressed and sat to eat at the small table in the room adjacent to the chamber they had recently occupied.

“Merlin, what happened to that baby dragon you told me about?” she asked curiously.

“Aithusa is her name and she’s a white dragon.”

He paused and she remembered there was still something he had not told her that would explain why he felt driven to save the egg and how he came to be present when it hatched. She crossed her arms and gave him an impatient look.

“She is growing quickly. The last time I saw Aithusa she was already five times the size she was when she hatched, not that that is terribly large for a dragon.”

“How are you so friendly with dragons?”

He shrugged. “Because I’m a dragonlord.”

It was not a term Morgause ever used nor could Morgana recall having heard of such a thing. “What is that?”

“I don’t entirely know myself,” Merlin said. “I never had a chance to learn all I needed to know about dragons. But I could arrange for you to meet Aithusa if you like.”

Excitement at the prospect of seeing the young dragon washed over her. “I would like that.” She saw him smile at having given her something to look forward to and finally she allowed the last of her bitter resentment to melt. “Merlin,” she said softly. “I forgive you.”

How deeply he had needed to hear those words was etched on his features. “Thank you, Morgana,” he croaked as if his throat was choked with tears. Then a lopsided smile lit on his face. “Because I offered to show you a dragon?”

She shook her head. “Because I needed to forgive you so I could forgive myself. So I can begin again.” Her life had taken another twist but at least she had had a hand in choosing its direction this time and, she thought with a smile, she had something to look forward to.

 

END


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